


lay your weary head to rest

by hopeless_hope



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Precious Peter Parker, Sleep Deprivation, Tired Peter Parker, Whump, Worried Tony Stark, i love him so much but i couldn't help but hurt him ya know?, sad sad boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 16:38:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19023790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopeless_hope/pseuds/hopeless_hope
Summary: “Please.” He means to say it loudly, with confidence, but it comes out as nothing more than a raspy whisper. His ears are ringing painfully, and his head feels like it’s going to explode. It hurts and hurts and hurts.“M-May,” Peter cries out to no one, feeling like a child. “Tony. Please, ‘m so tired.”He inhales and chokes on his tears.He can’t tell if it’s his imagination or not, but he’s pretty sure he hears a laugh.-In which Peter gets kidnapped, and that's not even the worst part. The worst part is he's not allowed to sleep.





	lay your weary head to rest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [parkrstark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/parkrstark/gifts).



> Title taken from the song "Carry On My Wayward Son" by Kansas.
> 
> Happy Birthday, Shannon! I'm not sure this fic could ever possibly be good enough - not for someone as lovely and brave and talented as you - but I hope you enjoy my sorry attempt at physical whump. I love you so so much!

Peter jerks awake at the loud blaring of his alarm, scrambling to silence the offending sound. His hands fumble for his phone and presses the button on the side, and he lays back on the pillows, inwardly cursing himself, as he does every single morning, for choosing the one alarm that sounds like there’s a nuclear meltdown.

He groans as he forces himself to sit up, suddenly hating himself for not getting back until well after three. Less than four hours of sleep  _ and  _ he as a chemistry test today. Brutal.

Peter stumbles out of bed, head heavy from exhaustion. He winces at the soreness in his side, and lifts his shirt, relieved that the nasty bruise he’d gotten yesterday from a hard kick has faded to almost nothing. He sighs tiredly.

It’s going to be a long day.

As if to prove his point, when he looks through the notifications on his phone, he has at least eight texts from Ned panicking about the test and one from Tony, which is… unusual. Tony typically just calls him. Peter quickly swipes past Ned’s and scans Tony’s message.

_ Get your ass to sleep before I activate the Baby Gate Protocol and have a suit fly out there to make you. _

Peter rolls his eyes and tosses his phone aside, not in the mood to respond to being treated like a child, though a part of him, admittedly, can’t believe he’s ghosting Tony Fucking Stark. But it’s fine.

He tiredly gets ready for the day, periodically casting wistful glances at his bed.  _ I should so sleep more,  _ he thinks.  _ Someone else can be Spider-Man.  _ He grabs his bag, hastily shoving his chemistry textbook in before heading to the kitchen to heat up a frozen sausage biscuit. Not exactly a king’s breakfast, but it’s sustenance enough.

There’s a note from May on the fridge.  _ I’ll be home around 6 - let’s go out for dinner tonight. Good luck on your test today! xo _

Peter brightens a little at that. May’s been so busy with work lately, and it’ll be nice to really sit down and talk with her and share a meal.

He grabs the biscuit from the microwave, slings his bag over his shoulder, and leaves the apartment, wincing at how bright it is outside. It doesn’t matter how long he’s been Spider-Man for - it will always take a second for his senses to adjust.

Peter walks distractedly, wolfing down his breakfast and running through the steps to titratrations in his head. He’s good at chemistry, for the most part, but titrations - those are hard to get right, and each lab group must perform one for the practical part of the exam.

His neck prickles uncomfortably, but Peter’s been Spider-Man long enough to know that his spidey sense always acts up when he’s anxious for a test, so he brushes it off. He turns to pass through a deserted alley, his favorite shortcut to the school.

Peter frowns when he sees a styrofoam cup rolling along the ground and wrinkles his nose. The city, frankly, is pretty gross, and he’s no stranger to litter, but it still drives him  _ nuts.  _ “Is it really that hard to find a trash can?” he grumbles to himself. He bends down to pick it up himself.

The moment he crouches, the background buzz of anxiety sharpens and screeches, and for a second, Peter cringes and tenses without really knowing why.

The second is too long, and Peter yelps as something sharp stabs into the side of his neck. He claps a hand to the area, hoping to stem the pain, and he furrows his brows in confusion at the hard piece of plastic that meets his hand.

His hand wraps around it and yanks, and he inhales sharply at the pain, eyes widening when he sees the cylindrical piece of plastic and thin needle sticking out of it. Peter’s head feels heavy suddenly, like a curtain is being draped over his thoughts, making it hard to think. His shoulders are starting to burn with the effort of holding his book bag, and he can’t help but let out a confused whimper.

“Wha-” he tries to say, tongue thick in his mouth. But then the curtain seems to swallow him whole, and he falls to the ground, unable to hold up his own body any longer. The last thing he’s aware of is heavy footsteps rapidly approaching, and his legs twitch in a feeble attempt to move, but the effort is futile.

He breathes in once, and exhales.

After that, there’s nothing.

* * *

He wakes up in a pitch dark room. It’s so dark, in fact, that as he lethargically opens his eyes, he’s not even positive that they  _ are  _ open. The next thing he registers is the way his arms are twisted painfully behind him, and he tugs, wincing at the sound of chain clanking. He tries to pull more forcefully, because surely he can break through them like butter, but his body is tired, and the energy he puts into it is enough to leave him panting.

“You’re awake,” a voice says, and Peter jerks against the chains, but he’s stuck to whatever chair he’s tied to. It sounds like the voice is playing through a speaker, and Peter shivers. “I hope you slept well, because it’s the last chance you’ll get for awhile.”

“‘S’not creepy at all,” Peter slurs tiredly, hating how heavy and tired he feels. Slowly, the events of the morning start to come back to him, and he remembers looking at the dart in his hand just before passing out altogether. They must have shot him with some sort of tranquilizer.

The voice laughs, crackling ominously, and Peter’s spidey sense is screaming at him in non-stop panic. “Snark. I see why he likes you.”

Peter furrows his eyebrows, trying to keep his head up. He might as well not waste his energy, though. It’s not like he can see anyone - or anything. “Mis’er Stark?”

“Very good! That is, of course, why you’re here.”

“Wh-hmmm,” Peter’s head lolls forward as he’s hit with another wave of exhaustion before he can even get the question out. He blinks a few times, forcing himself to think through the fog in his brain. “Wha’ d’you want?”

“What do I what?” the voice asks contemplatively. “A yacht. Another dog, maybe. More time. A chance for my son to succeed in life. You see, not to bore you with the sob story, but I’m afraid my time left here is… limited. All I wanted was to make sure my son’s future would be secured. The request I made was simple: an internship at Stark Industries.” A bitter laugh sounds, and Peter struggles to keep up, his body trying to pull him back under. “Only to be met with this bullshit about Stark Industries not hiring interns. And yet - there’s you.”

“‘M sorry,” Peter says, somewhere between a genuine apology and a plea. “I can - I’ll talk to him,” he tries.

The speaker crackles as the man sighs. “Of course you would. I looked into you, Peter Parker. In all my research, all of my watching, all of my  _ waiting…  _ All I could see is that you’re a good person. It’s nauseating, really. But no. We’re past asking. This is about Tony Stark and his arrogance. He has everything, and yet he gives nothing. Now he gets to know what it’s like to lose.”

Peter tugs fruitlessly at the chains again. There are… so many things wrong with what he’s been told and so many other alternatives to kidnapping people, but he’s too tired to point them out. Instead, he sags in the chair and says, “He does give. He’s Iron Man.”

“He gives when it’ll make him look good,” the voice snaps, and Peter winces, breathing heavily at the exhaustion and fear prying at his nerves. He closes his eyes, wanting the conversation to be over, and considers letting the drug still running through his system pull him back under just to get away.

He’s just about to drift off again, a small mercy, when a piercing noise sounds through the cell, causing him to jerk against the chains and whine, high-pitched and pained as the sound wreaks havoc on his heightened hearing.

The sound cuts off after a few seconds, but to Peter, it feels like forever. He pants, shaking all over as his ears ring painfully. Then, the sound cuts off, and the silence comes rushing back in. He can’t help the small whimper that leaves him as adrenaline courses through his body, a strange sensation alongside whatever’s trying to force him back asleep.

“Oh, yeah,” the voice chirps cheerfully, and Peter automatically flinches away, the most minute sound enough to grate at his pained ears now. “Thought we should spice it up a little bit, but I’ll keep it simple: every time you start to fall asleep, that sound will play for five seconds longer.”

Peter makes a desperate sound, fatigue already creeping back up on him.

“So get comfortable!” the man says happily. “But not too comfortable. We’ll see if you really  _ are  _ worth going after, or if that’s all fake, too.”

Tears prick at Peter’s eyes as a sob builds in his throat. And, somewhat hysterically, all he can think is,  _ I should have stayed in bed today. _

* * *

It doesn’t take long for him to lose concept of time. He tried, for roughly an hour, to count the seconds and minutes in his head, but it’s all jumbled together. The darkness feels thick around him, and the absence of light and sound are making his sluggish thoughts seem way too loud.

Eventually, he gives up counting in his head - he’s pretty sure he counted minute 40 three different times, anyway - and tries to detangle his thoughts, but whatever drug is coursing through his veins is making it hard to concentrate.

He’s just… God, he’s so tired. He’s probably been here an hour at most, and all he can think is that he’s so fucking tired. Peter tries, like a weak kitten, to lift his head up and look around once again, hoping that his eyes will have adjusted and reveal  _ something,  _ but all he gets is darkness.

He lets his head loll forward into his chest.

Mr. Stark. Tony. Tony will find him. Tony always finds him. Peter will be home in no time.

He just has to stay awake.

* * *

“Goo’ job, Peter,” Peter says, hating the way his own voice echoes back at him. But this is the only way he knows how to keep himself awake: talking. It is, after all, what he does best at, even in life or death situations. “Jus’ had to pick up the cup. Stupid. Fuck. M’tired. Gonna miss the chem test. S’fine, though, because, um. Um.”

He yanks at the chains in frustration. Even conversation with himself is almost impossible, because he just can’t seem to focus on anything. He hums in the back of his throat, continuing the conversation with himself in his head. The effort it takes to talk is too much.

_ Titrations. Hate those. I’m supposed to be home by six for dinner with May. I have the internship tomorrow. Tomorrow. How far away is tomorrow? How many hours has it been? How long… _

_ Fuck. I’m just. Gonna close my eyes but not go to sleep.  _ He sighs deeply, ignoring how badly his shoulders hurt from his arms being twisted back.

“Ah ah ah,” the voice in the speakers says suddenly. “What did we say about starting to fall asleep?”

“No - wait! I wasn’t - ” Peter tries to plead, but the piercing whistle fills the room, and Peter whimpers pathetically, the sound slamming into his eardrums and making them ache. He tries to dig his shoulder into his ear to cut off the sound, but it just exposes his other ear more.

He bites his lip, trying to keep from crying out. He knows the sound would only bounce back and assault him more. His face crumples in the dark, and he yanks even harder at the chains holding his hands, reflexively trying to clap them over his ears.

“Please,” he croaks, heart thudding in his chest.  _ Stop it stop it stop it! _

After what feels like an eternity, the sound ceases, and he lets out a tired sob.

This time, the noise stays with him.

* * *

Peter has no clue how long it’s been. Long enough that his stomach is burning with hunger. Long enough that his mouth is dry and he’s so, so thirsty. Long enough that he smells and needs a shower. Long enough that he’s wet himself, his captor refusing to let him out even for access to a bathroom.

He’s shaking. Whatever drugs that were in his system have mostly run their course, but that means nothing now. He’d barely gotten any sleep his last night home - has he been gone more than one night? - and his body is tired from fighting against his restraints and the adrenaline crashes.

He’s forcing his eyes to stay open, trembling violently at the strength it takes to do even that. Sometimes, he forgets his eyes are open at all. He can’t tell the difference, other than the burning. It’s just as dark either way.

Peter’s even scared to blink. He made that mistake already. Blinked and couldn’t force his eyes open again.

He knows better now.

* * *

“Please.” He means to say it loudly, with confidence, but it comes out as nothing more than a raspy whisper. His ears are ringing painfully, and his head feels like it’s going to explode. It hurts and hurts and hurts.

“M-May,” he cries, feeling like a child. “ _ Tony.  _ Please, ‘m so tired.”

He inhales and chokes on his tears.

He can’t tell if it’s his imagination or not, but he’s pretty sure he hears a laugh.

* * *

“Do you know how long it’s been?”

Peter’s too tired to respond, so he doesn’t.

“Answer me, boy!” Peter winces, the sound ricocheting inside his skull, and his ears throb painfully. He hates the tinny sound of the speakers and the nasally voice of his captor. “The button is right here.”

Peter whines pathetically. “‘M not sleeping!” He’s so tired, in fact, that it’s all he can do to make his lungs expand and contract. His head feels stuffed with cotton, and he’s given up on trying to think. If he could just  _ sleep. _

“Rules can be changed,” the man says mildly, and Peter’s next breath catches on a sob. He can’t take that noise again. He  _ can’t. _

“Don’t know!” Peter chokes out, voice sounding strangled.

“Guess.”

Peter’s crying again, but he doesn’t even have the energy for actual crying - just a slow trail of tears leaking down his cheeks. “Week?”

The man laughs, sounding positively gleeful. “A week?” he scoffs. “Oh no, sweetheart. You’re much weaker than that.”

Peter tries to figure out what that means, but the sentence falls apart in his head. He’s not sure he wants to know anyway. He makes another desperate sound in the back of his throat, and the man croons, an eerie sound.

“I wonder how much longer it’ll be until you pass out so badly that not even the whistle will wake you up?” the voice muses, but Peter starts to tune him out again. He doesn’t even feel real anymore, barely connected to his own body. “You’re about to fall asleep again, aren’t you?” The man sighs. “I mean, I hate to do this to you, but…”

Peter can’t even react this time. He just stares blankly ahead as the loud whistle fills the room yet again. His head spins and his ears fill with liquid. He cries and cries and cries.

Deliriously, he thinks he must be drowning.

He hopes it ends soon.

* * *

When the door bursts open with a bang, but the sound isn’t even what registers with him.

It’s the light.

Peter cries out, unaccustomed to any sort of light, much less light with intensity. He squeezes his eyes tight reflexively, then pries them open again, panicked.

“No no no,” he begs. “Don’ do it again, please, I’m sorry!” He squints against the light as a large shadow comes towards him, but he doesn’t try to get away - his arms went numb ages ago. He shakes violently as the figure comes to kneel in front of him.

“Peter!” a voice says, sounding muffled and hazy, but Peter can’t lift his head. A hand tilts his chin up, then, and Peter looks deliriously into the face of Tony Stark. His brain, though, takes a second to catch on.

“Wha’?” Peter asks in confusion, wondering if he finally managed to fall asleep. He distantly registers a hand tapping at his cheek.

“Peter, it’s me - it’s Tony,” his mentor says lowly, and Peter blinks blearily. He’d imagined this moment over and over since his capture, and yet - he doesn’t feel anything other than bone-deep exhaustion. He just stares at him.

“Oh.”

Tony furrows his eyebrows, concerned eyes taking in the state of him. Peter hears loud snap and then the chain around him slackens and he immediately falls bonelessly into Tony’s arms. “I gotcha, I gotcha,” Tony soothes. “Fuck, Rhodey, we’ve gotta get him out of here.”

Peter didn’t even notice Rhodey come in.

“You got him?” he hears Rhodey ask from behind him. Peter feels as Tony shifts his grip on him, carefully sliding an arm under his shoulders and beneath his knees. “I’ll take care of the shitbag who put him here.”

“Yeah, I’ve got him,” Tony says quietly but confidently. Peter barely even registers the gentle back and forth motion as he’s carried out of his godforsaken cell. He just lays limply in Tony’s arms and lets himself be carried and maneuvered into the back seat of a car.

“Is he okay?” he hears a familiar voice ask, above him.

“Does he  _ look  _ okay?” Tony snaps, and Peter flinches lightly at the sound. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, baby.”

“I’m sorry, Boss,” the voice, which Peter now recognizes as Happy says earnestly. Tony climbs into the seat next to him, and Peter sinks into his side, eventually just falling into Tony’s lab entirely, not having the strength to hold himself up.

“It’s fine,” Tony says shortly. “I know you’re worried, too.”

“Is that - is that  _ blood  _ on his ears?” Happy asks incredulously.

Tony’s hand runs through his matted curls, and Peter can’t decide whether to lean into the touch or shy away from it. So he does neither.

“Ruptured eardrums, FRIDAY told me,” Tony says grimly. “The man who put him here was more than happy to tell us what he did to him - played a loud noise every time he tried to sleep. It’s been two days, and he hasn’t been allowed to eat, sleep, or use a toilet.”

“Jesus Christ. Poor kid,” Happy says solemnly, and Peter feels another hand rest on his forehead before pulling away. “Let’s get you home, buddy.”

Peter hears a harsh crinkling sound and whines pathetically, for what must be the billionth time, and he roughly presses his hands into his ears. “I know, I’m sorry, kid, I’m sorry,” Tony apologizes, voice impossibly soft. “I just needed to get the water bottle open.”

Tony brushes Peter’s greasy hair from his face and helps wrestle him into more a seated position. “Help me get a little water into your system, and then I promise you can rest.”

Peter nods tiredly, and Tony tenderly cups the back of his head to hold him steady as he carefully tips the bottle, letting a little bit of the cool liquid flood Peter’s dry throat. Under any other circumstance, Peter would feel embarrassed at being treated like such a child, but he’s past the point of caring.

He coughs weakly, and Tony pulls the bottle away, quickly screwing the lid back on before gently tugging Peter back into his lap.

There’s so much Peter wants to say, but the mere thought trying to make thoughts connect and words form proves to be too much. Instead, he just listens to Tony breathe and closes his eyes at the feel of tender hands tugging at his hair.

Almost as soon as he’s about to drift off to sleep, a shot of panic races through Peter, and he sits up with a gasp, hands flying back to cover his ears.

“Peter, Peter, no - it’s okay,” Tony says soothingly. “I promise you can sleep now. No more loud noises.”

Peter stares at him with wide eyes. “I can sleep?” he asks in a small voice, and Tony looks at him with an impossibly sad expression.

“You can sleep,” Tony says firmly.

“No whistle?” He knows Tony already said this, but a part of him just  _ needs  _ to hear it again.

“No whistle,” Tony promises. Peter stares at him hopefully for another second before letting himself sag back into Tony’s lap. He already feels tendrils of sleep reaching up to pull him under, and he doesn’t think he can fight it any longer anyway.

“‘Kay,” he whispers. He hums tiredly. “Knew… knew you’d find me.”

The last words Peter hears before sleep takes him entirely are, “I’ll always find you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm literally begging you guys not to fucking kill me for how tragic and pathetic this attempt at physical whump is. I just wanted to try my hand at it for Shannon. <3 (Sorry I was a couple of hours late posting it! A girl really struggled.)
> 
> As always, let me know what you think and come harass me on tumblr @the-great-escapism, yada yada.


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